Guilty Bonds

Again there was a rustle in court, and the usher interposed with his stern command of “Silence?”

“Now, gentlemen, with these few brief observations, which I shall supplement later on, I will proceed to call my witnesses – persons whose veracity is unimpeachable – who will give you such an insight into his past life that will leave not the faintest suspicion of doubt in your minds that the prisoner at the bar has been the perpetrator of one, at least, of that string of almost unparalleled crimes which have shocked the whole of the civilised world.”

As the leading counsel, with a significant smile at the jury, resumed his seat, and his junior rose to call the witnesses, I folded my arms and waited.

Chapter Twenty Eight

The Clique

The two men first called did not interest me. They were the constables to whose evidence I had listened at the police court.

“Detective-Inspector Cronin,” exclaimed Mr Paget, when they had finished, and a tall, well-preserved, black-bearded man entered the witness-box and was sworn.

“I am John Cronin, detective inspector, Criminal Investigation Department,” said he, in answer to counsel. “The pocket-book which I produce was handed me on prisoner’s arrest, and upon examining it, I found it contained, amongst other things, a bill of the Charing Cross Hotel. I proceeded there, made inquiries, and ascertained that prisoner had been staying there one day, giving his name as Frank Burgoyne. I examined the room he occupied, and found a despatch box in which was the photograph I now produce. Comparing it with that of the woman murdered in Angel Court, taken after death, I find the features exactly coincide.”

“Was there any distinguishing mark?” asked his lordship.

“Yes, m’lord,” replied the detective handing up both photographs. “Your lordship will notice a small scar over the left eye.”

“You made other inquiries, I believe?” asked Mr Paget.

“Yes; on the following day I went to prisoner’s house, Elveham Dene, Northamptonshire, and searched the premises. On examining the drawers of a writing-table in the library, which were unlocked, I found two blank pieces of paper on which were seals corresponding in every particular to that found on the lady murdered in Bedford Place.”

What did all this mean? I knew nothing of these seals. Surely it must be some plot to take away my life!

The frightful suspicion – could Vera be concerned in it – entered my soul.

The doubt was too awful to be entertained; yet she had not communicated with me since my arrest.

“In the same drawer,” continued the detective fumbling among some papers he held in his hand, “I found this telegram. It is dated on the day of the murder in Bloomsbury, and addressed to the deceased. It reads: – ‘Handed in at Hull and received at the West Central district office. Shall be with you about midnight. Be at home.’ It is signed with a single letter ‘B.’ On examining the notepaper on the writing-table, I found it was the same as that upon which the seals were impressed.”

“You produce some of that notepaper, I think?” said Mr Paget.

“I do, sir.”

The paper was handed to the judge, who held it to the light and compared the watermarks.

When he had satisfied himself the detective resumed:

“Throughout my examination I was in every way retarded by the action of the prisoner’s wife. On proceeding to search one of the bedrooms she positively refused to give me the keys of a chest of drawers, and I was therefore compelled to force them. Concealed under some papers, which lined one of the drawers, I discovered a small gold padlock, upon which are engraved the initials ‘R.S.’, and to which was attached the small portion of gold chain I now produce. I had charge of the inquiries in the case of Mrs Inglewood, and remember at the time of her decease she was wearing a diamond bracelet which is also produced. When I examined the house at Bedford Place I discovered the case of the bracelet, which bore the name of the jeweller. The manager of the firm in question will be called to prove that the padlock found in the bedroom of the prisoner is the one belonging to Mrs Inglewood’s bracelet, and that it had been sold to her a week before her death.”

Some of the dead woman’s jewellery in my room! Incredible!

Was it possible that Vera – but, no – again banish the thought!

“In the same drawer,” added the detective, with a self-satisfied smile at the intense surprise which his statements excited, “was this letter, in a lady’s handwriting, signed ‘Ethel Inglewood’: ‘Come and dine to-morrow evening. I have the money ready, and rely on you to keep my secret.’ The address embossed on the paper is ‘67, Bedford Place,’ and the date is that of the day previous to the murder.”

“Do you prove anything else?” inquired Mr Paget, expectantly.